Twisted Metal: Bloodshed
by TheObsidianLord
Summary: Twisted Metal draws many competitors, with their motivations as varied as they themselves, whether they be driven by revenge, greed, desperation or any other desire... Focused on the drivers, generally character driven, does feature lots of action in the tournament chapters. OC present as main character but Twisted Metal drivers present too, effort made to avoid OC being a Mary Su


The scene was just barely visible to Lyle through the cracks in his hiding spot; barely enough room to make out the room but it was enough to plainly see the horror occurring.

Kinda hard to miss a guy with his head on fire, he thought, berating himself mentally for stupid observations like this rather than looking for a way out; he continued desperately but quietly as possible clawing away at the walls around him, desperate for a way out, through a sewer, a rat tunnel, hell itself, he didn't care, so long as that _freak _didn't find him.

Outside, the man whom Lyle was hiding from stomped his foot down onto the already shattered shoulder of his victim; the girl cried out and sobbed in agony, all she could think was "please just end this".

But that was not happening anytime soon; Needles Kane was not feared by all who knew his name for nothing. The man's horrific reputation was in no way a lie.

The girl chanced a glance up at him when the next stomp did not come, but even as she turned her head she realised, too late, that he had been waiting for movement and quickly saw lights flash in front of her eyes and felt a fresh eruption of pain as his boot shattered several teeth.

Needles knelt now, face to face, well, face to mask, with her; the horrific red eyes of his clowns mask and the flames flickering mere inches from his face made him all the more terrifying.

"Where is he?"

The girl whimpered, silently begging that Lyle would intervene, but knew he would not; he had left to save them all, coming back would be suicide. She silently, slowly shook her head, expecting the full force of his wrath, almost welcoming it.

But it did not come, for at that moment there was a tremendous _crack_ from the small cupboard of the house; immediately Kane was off across the room toward the door, halfway there when the crash of a wooden wall giving way echoed around the room.

Needles wrenched the door clean from his hinges, faced with what seemed like a pantry; as his eyes fully took in the scene, he could only roar, a haunting, primal shout of rage.

Through a large hole in the wall of the Pantry, Needles saw the tell- tale cloud of dust, the motorbike that was the cause just barely visible among it, speeding away across the lonely desert road; its rider was obscured entirely but Needles already knew the man escaping.

He wondered if his prey could even imagine the pain he would inflict on him.

As Lyle Dolorem sped away across the road, a perpetual sandstorm kicked up by the roaring machine he rode on, he allowed the tears to leave his eyes; even he could not have said what feeling was now the dominant driving force, the grief and guilt of his last cousins loss, or the anger, the drive for slow, cruel and excruciating revenge on that sick Clown and anyone associated with him.

In the end, it didn't matter; the Clown would die, no two ways about it.

He would not let Sophie's death go unpunished.

He drove on, ignorant of his surroundings, not noticing the hours pass, the winds kick up then die or the man who most likely would never walk again who had been stupid enough to stand in front of his bike for too long; finally, once a moonless night had fallen, he was pulled from his trance, long enough to pull into the lot of a small diner, the kind of place that screamed "eat here those who are tired of living".

"Wonder if they serve malaria or just plain old rat piss in the coffees?" Lyle wondered aloud to himself as he pushed open the door, which creaked louder than the little bell attached to it, and sat himself in the nearest unoccupied booth. He briefly took in his surroundings, no one more notable than a couple of random bikers, some admiring his parked vehicle, and an older guy in old fatigues keeping to himself in the corner.

"Excuse me, can I have a coffee over here?" Lyle called to the nearest waitress, adopting a false but, he thought, relatively convincing Nevada accent; better not to make it easier on the Clown, tracking down the one English guy in the shittest part of nowhere wouldn't exactly be hard, better to blend in as best as possible.

The waitress didn't turn to him but he saw her write down his order, not even bothering to ask him how he liked his coffee, like it really mattered in this place. He didn't notice the old man in army fatigues turn his eyes to watch him, now intensely interested in the young, scruffy man in the booth.

Waiting for his coffee, Lyle kept an eye on the windows of the diner as he thought about his next move; Sweet Tooth wasn't exactly easily missed but there was a good chance The Clown might not approach in it for that reason.

Then again, is he really that smart, he wondered; all he had seen of The Clown so far was a violent psychopath who was just as much a stranger to subtlety as he was to mercy.

"Hey, kid, what do you think you're trying to pull?"

Lyle wheeled around to see the fatigue clad man sliding into his booth, a can of beer in one hand and a scowl on his face, as though Lyle had done him a personal insult.

"What's it any business of yours?" Lyle asked, hoping he sounded more threatening than he felt; something was very wrong with this man.

The old man's eyes flashed with something, almost like fury, and Lyle prepared for anything, a punch, a drawn gun, hell even for the Clown himself to walk in and start offing heads.

What he didn't expect was for the old geezer to burst out laughing, drawing almost every eye in the place.

Lyle froze as he realised what the man was doing; try as he was to stick in the corner, anyone who looked at Lyle could tell he was running from something, the dirty clothes, bags under his eyes and general battered demeanour weren't exactly subtle. The Old Fossil was drawing as much attention as possible to make him spill the beans.

"Alright, alright! I get your point old man, I'll hear you out, just, can we do this out back? Or can you at least stop bloody laughing." Lyle snarled as the Older Man smirked, all traces of the laughing eccentric gone.

"The back parking space, five minutes. And call me old again and I'll mount your head on my car." The Old Man got up, paused to pay his bill and walked out the back door, lighting a cigarette as he went.

Lyle forced down his coffee quickly, dropped the money on the table and followed the Old Man, who was outside as he said, leaned against a hulking military Humvee, a heavy machine gun visibly mounted on top and loaded.

Well, don't see that too often, Lyle thought, impressed in spite of himself.

"I know she's a beauty mate but I'd rather know what your deal is before you start drooling all over my hood."

Lyle's eyes snapped back to the Old Man; the grin was gone but so was the scowl, so Lyle allowed himself to relax a little bit.

"Let's start with names shall we? You go first." Lyle narrowed his eyes at the Old Man's obvious show of power but begrudgingly complied.

Lyle, Lyle Doromel, I'm just a rider, now how abou-"

"Don't lie to me boyo; I know full well there's more to you than that you lying punk, punks like you don't come in to places like this, panicked and thanking your stars to be alive, no, they don't make it that far. Who are you really?"

Lyle gritted his teeth, almost inclined to punch the man but let his shoulders sag; he was too tired and far too desperate for any kind of help to bother arguing with the man.

"Fine; I used to be a Demolition Rider, I never played in any of the big leagues but I did well enough to live off it. I left two years ago, been on the run because of a psycho who plans to off me and me sister."

The Old Man's eyes widened; he looked at Lyle with a strange look, almost like sympathy, before speaking again.

"Was this psycho by any chance a fatass in a clown mask with his head on fire?"

Lyle practically fell over from shock at not only how this old man in the middle of nowhere knew about The Clown but how he seemed almost casual in describing him.

"Wh- how do you know about him?" Lyle asked, no longer even pretending to be aloof or tough, simply desperate for an answer.

"Hang on there sonny, didn't introduce myself yet, you were nice enough to, seems only right I should; my names Rogers, Captain Rogers to you boy, and don't forget it, I fought hard to make the world a better place for your lot, so I'd appreciate a bit more respect from now.

Lyle glanced around at the dilapidated diner in the middle of a twenty mile wasteland and tried not a remark on how well Rogers had clearly done.

"Right, Captain Rogers then, what do you know about this Clown?" Lyle sat down on a railing of the diners disabled ramp (lined with rubbish and unevenly built anyway), all his attention on the ancient Captain before him.

Rogers took another drag on his cigarette before looking up to answer.

"His name's Marcus far as I know, not that you'd know that mind you, only ever heard anyone call him Needles, himself included. Don't know everything about him but I do know he killed his family and then went pretty far round the twist; been entering all sorts of Demolition tournaments ever since. They say he's won Twisted Metal 3 times now."

"Hang on," Lyle interrupted, "Twisted Metal? As in, super dangerous, one man leaves, grant your deepest desire Twisted Metal?"

"The very same," Rogers nodded, averting Lyle's eyes.

"Okay then, that at least explains what the deal is with the ice cream van with miniguns on it, but why's he after me, I faced him in a tournament once but I lost, surely we'd all know if he killed his opponents outside the ring?"

Rogers shook his head.

"'Fraid I can't tell you that boy, if what you say is true and you don't know him proper I reckon he found out something even you don't know that makes him feel threatened, like he needs to be rid of you, because that's the only way he can be free."

"I thought you were an army Captain, not a therapist."

"Still time for you to end up under my tires punk."

Lyle slid off the rail and paced up and down in front of the ramp, thinking the new facts over in his head; at least now he knew that Needles wasn't just any other really determined psycho killer, there were enough of those to fill a country, but what had he done to make Needles so interested? Why did he feel that he had to beat some random Demolition Rider who didn't even last to the semi-finals the only tournament they ever shared.

And why was his family concerned? Or for that matter, how did he even know who his family was?

"Well, youngster, I think I have an idea for you, if you can spare the patience to sit still for a minute."

Lyle realised he had been ignoring Rogers and stopped himself.

"Look boy, you aren't the only one with problems, look at me, d'you think I've got long left in me, in this state? Not fucking likely. So this is what I say; I happen to know where the big man setting up the Twisted Metal tournament just happens to be holed up. What say you and me make our way together, we sign up, then you got your chance of getting Needles of your back?"

Lyle narrowed his eyes; an offer like that never came without a hitch.

"What's the catch?" Lyle snapped.

Rogers grinned openly, showing several missing teeth.

"You aren't as dumb as you look boy; Twisted Metal's dangerous, getting their in one piece? Almost as much. A lot of the, shall we say, "less confident" drivers feel like the perfect solution to their problem is just to blast every poor sucker who comes within a hundred miles of the place. So that's your part, I can take most of those wannabe punks but if we meet a group I'll need a gunner; that's where you come in."

Lyle considered the offer; entering Twisted Metal was certainly not a matter to undertake lightly, the odds of survival were slim. Then again, odds with Needles on his tail weren't much better, and Rogers certainly seemed to have a better grasp of the ins and outs than he did.

"Alright Rogers, deal; you and me will work together until we hit the sign up, then we're just contestants, got it?"

Rogers grinned, warmly for the first time, and nodded, holding out his ancient, withered hand, which Lyle shook gently, afraid of breaking it.

"Right then, you pull that bike of yours round back here and I'll get it latched up to the back of my ride, I'll get us set with the location."

As Lyle walked to retrieve his bike, he considered what he was doing; Rogers seemed like a good sort but when a guy had basically strong armed you into attending a battle to the death tournament, it was better to tread lightly. Before he drove his bike to the back parking, Lyle reached into the lockbox strapped to the side of it and pulled out a small 9mm and stashed it in a particularly deep pocket of his worn leather duster, the lining of the pocket had long since worn, making it even easier to hide the pistol.

After loading the bike into a small trailer attached to the Humvee, Lyle clambered into the passenger seat, Rogers already behind the wheel.

"You loaded up back there?"

"Yeah, it's in, let's just get moving." Lyle said eager to arrive at the tournament soon.

Rogers nodded and started up the engine with a roar of approval from the mechanics as they pulled away from the disgusting diner and set off once again along the desert road.

Lyle settled himself into the passenger seat, stretching his arms and legs out to get more comfortable; it wasn't often he was a passenger rather than a driver, he planned to enjoy it for as long as he could.

After a few minutes of no sounds but the rumble of the vehicle on the desert roads, Lyle spoke up.

"So tell me Captain, why're you so interested to enter Twisted Metal? You sure you can handle it with your age?"

Rogers snapped his head to look at Lyle, indignant and irritated.

"You look at me you punk; do I look like a young proud soldier anymore?"

"Do you want the honest answer or the nice answer?"

Rogers scowled.

"When you get to my age and see what's happening out there in the world, see how much things have gone to hell… it makes you wonder "surely I could do a better job stopping this sort of madness than the idiots in charge" but oh, my body gave up on being that good long ago. Twisted Metal's the only way I see to get myself my youth back and start teaching these good for nothings what pain feels like, give as good as we take for once."

Lyle stared; the outburst had been very unexpected.

Rogers sighed and gave an apologetic look before focusing back on the road again, leaving Lyle to his thoughts.

For at least an hour Lyle thought of what he now knew about Needles; surely he would enter Twisted Metal again if what Rogers had told him was true, but then why wasn't he offing the other contestants who were actually entering, why go after a guy he barely knew who wasn't even connected to Twisted Metal until he came after him to begin wit-

Lyle was pulled from his thoughts by the deafening roar of a trucks horn; along the drivers side he saw an enormous semi-truck pull ahead of the Humvee and place itself ahead of them, giving a clear view of the armaments and various attached weapons to the truck.

Looking to the drivers seat, Lyle saw that Rogers had noticeably tensed in his seat, though he kept his focus and continued to drive.

"Who is that, one of yours maybe?" Lyle asked, anxious to know about the competition.

Rogers shook his head, never taking his eyes off the semi.

"That's Darkside; that beast used to belong to one of the best fighters in the whole of Twisted Metal. He died years ago though; got cocky and tried to take on someone too big even for him, nothing left but a smear on the road by the time the fight was done I heard."

"Alright, who's driving it now?"

Rogers paused, but seemed to decide it was better to continue.

"Psycho bitch; goes by the name of Dollface. You'll find most of us don't tend to go shouting our real names in Twisted Metal so don't bother asking me who she really is, all I can tell you is, she's bad news. Crazy as they come, I'd reckon even Needles is afraid of her, so if you are going to stay in this contest, keep your distance."

Lyle couldn't help a slight gulp as he looked again to the humongous vehicle, trying to catch a glimpse of its driver in the wing mirrors but he couldn't see anything.

"Alright then, quick question, if she's that dangerous, why exactly aren't we trying to put as much distance between us and her as humanly possible?" Lyle asked, getting increasingly nervous at the prospect of tailing an armed semi driven by a crazed lunatic.

Rogers chuckled, "You clearly haven't seen much of the circuit outside of the officials have you boy? Everyone in Twisted Metal knows her, and the ones that don't won't survive to the qualifiers anyway; we stick by her, chances of getting attacked by anyone else drop to zero, only trick is knowing when to duck if she's in a bad mood, ha!"

Rogers laugh was unnerving, he seemed genuinely excited at the idea of dodging away from certain death at a moment's notice; Lyle chose to ignore this and settled himself into his seat, the exhaustion of his constant running catching up with him finally.

As he dozed in the seat, he was never aware of the white, porcelain mask that had appeared in the wing mirror, watching him and Rogers, even the eyes of the figure behind it invisible, concealed in the pitch blackness of the eyeholes. The silent figure never left their forms, seemingly not even watching the road, yet never wavering in its path, almost seeming to lead the Humvee and its occupants on their path; even when their final stop came into sight, not once did her eyes leave them.

Nor did it leave the horrifically decorated ice cream truck following close behind them, never moving closer but always staying in sight.


End file.
